He’d brought the dictionary to the office one day, and it had stayed in his desk drawer ever since. He really must remember to return it. He hated it when people borrowed his own books or CDs and never gave them back.

Yes, there was another meaning to ‘fey’. Fated to die, or doomed. From the Old English faege, marked for death. Tappy, in fact. Cooper nodded. Old Mrs Sutton had been tappy. And so had Derek Sutton. But who else at Pity Wood had been tappy or fey? Two young women, at least. Victim A and Victim B. They had certainly been fated to die.

This morning, E Division headquarters was the focus of activity. HOLMES staff had been arriving from Ripley and equipment was being set up. Detectives had been drafted in from other divisions and were being assigned their actions. Some teams were already out, chasing down associates of Tom Farnham’s, pursuing sightings of vehicles in the area at the time of his shooting, checking on the whereabouts of suspects in previous shootings. It had the look of a professional job, after all.

All the activity was making Cooper feel a bit left out. Even the identification of one of the bodies at Pity Wood Farm no longer appeared quite such a breakthrough as it had at the time. They knew who she was, but not how she’d died. No signs of major trauma – that’s what the postmortem said. Establishing how she’d met her fate was going to need a much bigger stroke of luck.

And they were still no nearer identifying any of the other migrant workers who’d been employed at Pity Wood Farm. Enquiries with agencies had drawn a complete blank. Gavin Murfin had just crossed the last one off the list this morning. Tom Farnham wasn’t going to be any further use – which left Fry’s trip to Ireland to interview Martin Rourke as the last hope, reluctant though she was to go.

‘Well, your nose might have been accurate, Ben,’ said Fry, striding into the office with a file and perching on the edge of a desk between his and Gavin’s. ‘According to the initial report from the chemist’s lab at the Forensic Science Service, there were a number of chemical traces found in the soil at Pity Wood Farm – and inside some of the buildings, too. Nothing out of the ordinary for a farm, so far as I can see.’

‘You have no idea what’s normal on a farm,’ protested Cooper.

Fry raised an eyebrow, but took it well. ‘Fair point. I’ve got a copy of the report here, so let’s run through the results, then. Gavin, are you listening?’

‘All ears,’ said Murfin, though, as far as Cooper could see, he was concentrating on a chocolate bar he’d found somewhere. Not one that had disappeared from the packed lunches the other day, was it?